Biding Time
by DustyGills
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield saved Bilbo Baggin's life when he was a child, and Bilbo has been under the impression that they've been engaged all these long, lonely years. But when Thorin returns, he doesn't seem to have the slightest memory of Bilbo, let alone their engagement. Bilbo is sad and confused, but determined to win Thorin's favour on the dark, winding roads ahead.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary****: **Thorin Oakenshield saved Bilbo Baggin's life when he was a child, and Bilbo has been under the impression that they've been engaged all these long, lonely years. But when Thorin returns, he doesn't seem to have the slightest memory of Bilbo, let alone their engagement. Bilbo is sad and confused, but determined to win Thorin's favour on the dark, winding roads ahead. **Based upon a lovely meme prompt. This can als**o** be found **o**n AO3. x**ox**o******

**Pairing****: **Thorin/Bilbo

**Warnings****: **Violence, some language, eventual smut, angst, canon-divergence!

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Thorin Oakenshield didn't possess many opinions concerning the Shire, nor it's rather peculiar inhabitants. It was simply a region he was obligated to pass through every now and again while he went about his business. He had hardly ever lingered more than an hour, and rarely had doings with it's people.

That changed briefly on a warm, sunny day in early autumn.

Thorin was trudging along a crude dirt path that wound it's way through the admittedly idyllic country. Everything was very green; lush with vegetation, trilling birds and fluffy, scurrying creatures. The air was congested with the heady scents of freshly cut grass and sun-baked blossoms. It felt as if the entire land was revelling in the final days of heat and light.

Sunset was a less than an away and Thorin's belongings had begun to weigh heavily on his shoulders. He had many miles yet to travel, and his thoughts strayed fleetingly to _The Green Dragon_, several miles back into Hobbiton. But he had decided against it already, preferring to work his way around the outskirts of the settlement, thereby avoiding many of the dwellings and the numerous, distrustful stares he would have received. He could abide a few lonely weeks on the road to Bree. Bofur had taken up temporary residence there, and _The Prancing Pony_ was a much more welcoming establishment to their kind.

He rounded a bend and wide, largely unpopulated lands materialised before his eyes - a familiar sight. They stretched out ahead of him in rolling hills and hollow dips, dotted with plant-life, rife with unknown travellers and dangers. He felt unaccountably weary, thinking of the relatively short journey before him. There really was nothing to be done aside from pressing on; just as always.

Thorin was just passing a dense patch of greenery, mere centimetres from leaving Hobbiton behind, when he heard the sharp snap of a breaking branch, a child's startled yelp, and then a splash accompanied by a sickeningly hollow _thunk._

He halted at once, listening intently. When there was no pained groan or splashing footsteps to be heard, he dropped his laden pack unceremoniously to the ground and crashed his way through the undergrowth. Just beyond the tree line was a bubbling, stony brook cutting a cheerful path beneath the leafy shade. A small body lay face down in the shallow water, unmoving.

Chest constricting, Thorin didn't hesitate to rush in. Though hardly reaching his calves, the water thoroughly soaked his boots, socks and trousers as he grabbed the wee hobbit lad round the middle and hauled him from the brook.

To Thorin's immense relief, the moment the hobbit's face was freed from the water he began to cough and splutter, releasing a pitiful moan.

"Be still, little one," Thorin admonished, as the sopping hobbit began wriggling weakly in his grip. He held the lad to his chest gently, but firmly as he waded out of the water and walked back to the lane. Thorin patted the halfling squarely on the back every now and again as the poor thing expelled more water from his lungs.

It wasn't until they were back on the path and standing safely next to his pack, that Thorin looked down to inspect the wee hobbit in the fading light. In addition to nearly drowning, there was also a painful lump on the hobbit's forehead, and a large gash at his temple that was bleeding profusely. Thorin realised his own front was already splattered with scarlet.

When Thorin pressed the sleeve of his tunic over the shallow but gushing wound, a pair of large blue-grey eyes peered blearily up at him through a nest of sopping blond curls. The hobbit blinked, then frowned, nose wrinkling as he saw that Thorin was indeed a dwarf.

"What were you doing, you foolish thing?" Thorin rumbled, more relieved than angry as he knelt slowly and drew a scrap of cloth from his pack; all the while keeping a tight hold on the lad. It was a spare cloth, for polishing his weapons, but he supposed this was as worthy a use as any.

"Here, hold this to your head."

The hobbit did as he requested, the dazed look in his eyes only becoming more pronounced the longer he gazed at Thorin. It was beginning to feel disconcerting. Thorin briefly attempted to set him upright on the hard-packed earth, but the hobbit tilted severely, like a sapling in high wind, and Thorin had to catch him up once more.

"What were you doing climbing trees with night approaching?" Thorin asked again, hoping the lad hadn't lost the power of speech.

"Keeping watch for elves," the hobbit said at last, voice faint. "They journey this way sometimes."

"Is that right?" Thorin was always less than pleased to hear any tidings of any elf. He heaved his pack over one shoulder with difficulty while his other arm clutched the thin span of the hobbit's hips.

"Yes... I fell trying to climb down. The fireworks are starting soon. I suppose I shan't be going now." He looked so downcast that Thorin had to bite back a bark of agitated laughter; it reminded him so of Kíli when Thorin had private talks and training sessions with Fíli.

"I'm certain you won't miss anything," Thorin said automatically, patience far beyond waned by the delay.

He hastened back into the depths of the Shire as fast as he was able without jostling the injured halfling too roughly. Not that Thorin thought the lad noticed much of anything. He was too busy putting pressure on his wound and leaning his head against Thorin's shoulder; he still seemed rather dazed. His free hand tangled in Thorin's long hair.

"Do you live in a cave?" the hobbit inquired, voice faintly slurred, when the silence had grown uncomfortably prolonged.

Thorin's thoughts flew immediately to Erebor. "No," he answered, feet backtracking through Hobbiton grudgingly. His boots squished unpleasantly with every step. "We live in the large caverns beneath Ered Luin. The Blue Mountains," he added for the lad's sake.

"Sounds like a cave," the hobbit muttered. Then, more brightly: "Do you grow things there?"

The question was rather startling. "We create things."

The hobbit sighed woefully, like he'd expected nothing less. "I have flowers and tomato vines to attend to before winter comes. I expect I can't bring them with us, though."

Thorin listened to the halfling's rambling with a growing smile behind his beard. "Us?"

"When we are married."

Thorin was truly in danger of laughing then, but wished to cause the halfling no further distress. "Why do you speak of matrimony? Aren't you a bit young for such considerations?"

"You saved me," Bilbo told him solemnly.

"I did save you," Thorin said quietly, mostly to himself. The bone-chilling image of that small body bobbing prostrate in the water (but with no one to fish him out this time around) came unbidden to Thorin's mind and he frowned deeply.

"That means we're bound to each other forever," the halfling informed him seriously. "All the tales say so."

Thorin regarded him with bemusement, never having heard any such thing. He hadn't known there was any hobbit lore to speak of!

"You'll want to stay in the mountains, I suppose." The halfling grimaced at his own words, a worry line appearing between his brows. "Is it cold there?"

And so, Thorin, deliberately ignoring the lad's folly concerning marriage (he must have hit his head harder than Thorin originally assumed), was goaded into telling all he knew of Ered Luin, which was a considerable amount. As he spoke of it, his mind consistently strayed to Erebor and his missing father.

The halfling proved to be an attentive listener in spite of his obvious concussion, drinking in Thorin's words eagerly and clutching one of Thorin's braids in a fat fist.

The black, jewel studded veil of night had fallen by the time they'd reached the centre of Hobbiton. It was unusually bustling with activity. At first Thorin assumed that the hobbits were forming a search party for the halfling in his arms, but the both of them were spared only passing, mistrustful glances from the other hobbits before they moved on, clearly intent upon something else.

"What's happening?" Thorin inquired.

The lad looked at him like he was daft. "I told you; fireworks. We nearly always have a show when Gandalf visits."

"_The_ Gandalf? Gandalf the Grey?" Thorin asked, startled.

"Uh-huh."

The mere thought that the reputable, travelling wizard would visit the Shire to please it's people with a f_irework_ display was farcical; risible. Not nearly as risible as picturing the obstinate, robust creatures mixing up the explosive powders necessary to create fireworks themselves, however.

"Where is the nearest healer to be found?" Thorin asked, hoping that whomever it was would be free to take the halfling off his hands.

The lad pointed him in the right direction, looking about gloomily at his chattering fellows. "I hope I'm still able to go," he repeated.

Thorin didn't answer, simply hastened to the healer's premises, wending his way between the excited throng of hobbits with care.

The healer, a particularly fat, red-faced specimen, didn't mention either fireworks nor Gandalf, but Thorin saw the way her eyes lingered on the clusters of hobbits chattering boisterously together.

"C'mere then," she groused, snatching the halfling from Thorin's arms without bothering to evaluate the situation. "I'll make sure 'e gets 'ome alright, and that 'is injuries are well treated. This un's in 'ere all the time. I'll send for 'is parents straight off."

Thorin nodded. "Thank you." _The Green Dragon_ was truly out of the question now. He didn't wish to be sought for an explanation by the halfling's parents. He readjusted his pack, contents hopefully none the worse for wear after being discarded so forcefully. Nothing _sounded_ broken.

"Wait!" The lad called, as Thorin turned to depart for Bree again. "Tell me your name."

"Thorin," he called back, through the cacophony. "I am Thorin Oakenshield." As ever, he proclaimed his title with a conflicting mixture of pride, shame and defiance.

"I'm Bilbo Baggins," the hobbit shouted as Thorin retreated, voice thin, hapless; he was still grasping Thorin's scrap of cloth to his face like it was something precious. He yelled many other things, as well, but Thorin couldn't discern them and didn't go back to find out. He'd hoped to have already set up camp by this time and have a nice fire blazing; he wasn't wasting any more time.

Thorin sent the halfling one last forced smile through the crowd and lifted his hand in farewell before keeping on his solitary way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary****: **Thorin Oakenshield saved Bilbo Baggin's life when he was a child, and Bilbo has been under the impression that they've been engaged all these long, lonely years. But when Thorin returns, he doesn't seem to have the slightest memory of Bilbo, let alone their engagement. Bilbo is sad and confused, but determined to win Thorin's favour on the dark, winding roads ahead. **Based upon a lovely meme prompt. This can als**o**be found **o**n AO3. x**ox**o******

**Pairing****: **Thorin/Bilbo

**Warnings****: **Violence, some language, eventual smut, angst, canon-divergence!

**A/N: **This is the chapter that was never meant to be! *dramatic music* I was intending to make a vague reference about a conversation Gandalf and Bilbo once had... and ended up writing it. -_- Oh well. Thorin and co. will turn up next chapter.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

Bilbo Baggins took careful aim, grasping the smooth stone in his pudgy fist with supple strength. The brown-hued bird he'd set his sights on continued twittering away happily to it's colleagues, blissfully unaware of Bilbo's watchful eye tracking it's every minute movement.

He breathed in slowly through his nose, cocked his arm back, then flung the stone as hard as he could at his target with devastating accuracy. The stone struck the bird squarely on breast. It rose to the air in a flurry of wings, screeching shrilly as it flew off, accompanied by a multitude of it's fellows.

Bilbo leapt to his feet, punching the air with his victory. He hadn't missed a single target all afternoon! He knelt and selected another stone.

"What on _earth _are you doing, Bilbo Baggins?" A familiar, irascible-sounding voice inquired sternly.

Bilbo startled and twisted about (nearly whacking his toes on a stump in the process) to face the tall, grey-clad wizard looming behind him. The stone clutched in his hand promptly tumbled back to the ground. He laced his fingers behind his back and attempted to appear inconspicuous.

"Nothing," he stammered a little too quickly, voice pitched several octaves higher than usual. "Just admiring the trees. They look so beautiful this time of year."

"Don't lie to me Bilbo Baggins. I saw you throwing rocks at those birds." Gandalf pointed an accusing finger at him.

Bilbo blushed down to his toes with shame. "I didn't hurt them, just scared them a little."

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows seemed to bristle. "That's no excuse! I'd like to hear you explain that to Radagast, if he ever caught you. He'd have transfigured you into a rabbit for a month for such insolence."

But Gandalf's anger seemed to dissipate even as he spoke, and he leaned heavily upon his staff, gaze sharp on Bilbo. "That was a exemplary shot, nevertheless. You have a keen eye."

"Thank you," Bilbo replied uneasily, both cautious and pleased. He began edging in the direction of civilisation and out of Gandalf's line of sight.

"Where do you think you're off to?"

Bilbo shrugged non-committally. "Just walking."

"No need to flee on my account." Gandalf lowered himself to the tree stump and adjusted his frayed robes, laying his twisted staff across his knees. "Your father sent me for you," he explained. "He informed me that you were meant to be sitting out in the garden – resting, not off chasing elves and climbing trees. I see now that you've been doing neither."

Bilbo scuffed at the ground with his toes. "It was boring."

"Indeed." Gandalf's eyes slid past him, and he seemed amused. "What are those supposed to be?" he barked, gesturing with his staff to where several slender branches were piled in a small, defeated heap; leafless and splintered. "Were you trying to start a forest fire, as well?"

"I was trying to make a sword," Bilbo confessed with defensive embarrassment. "But I haven't the skill."

"And then you decided to throw rocks at innocent creatures instead, I suppose," he said, causing Bilbo to blush again. "But what would _you_ be needing with a sword?" Gandalf inquired curiously, eyes glittering with patent amusement.

Bilbo's hand jumped to the linen bandage adorning his head, and a bashful, unwitting grin lit up his face. "For my journey to the Blue Mountains. When my betrothed returns, I must be ready to face the dangers of the road."

He saw by the glint in Gandalf's faded blue eyes that this wasn't news. "Ah, yes," he hummed deeply. "Your mother told me that she is quite pleased with your prospects."

Bilbo smiled, flushing with pleasure. "He could return at any time. I have to be prepared," he told Gandalf earnestly.

Gandalf eyed him with immense interest, pondering his words. "Hand me that branch over there; it will make an admirable sword. Well... a practise sword anyway."

Bilbo seized the branch he'd indicated and passed it over, watching with astonishment as Gandalf pulled a carving knife out of the folds of his threadbare robes and set to work on it. Smooth curls of wood floated serenely to the grass at Gandalf's booted feet, forming a layer of soft golden-brown shavings. Bilbo plopped down on the ground beside Gandalf, sifting through the shavings with his fingers, resigned to having the wizard keep him company.

"So, tell me more about your suitor. He's a dwarf, I hear."

Bilbo sensed a deeper significance behind the inquiry that surpassed simple curiosity, but he couldn't begin to guess at what it might be. "I don't know much about him myself, only that he hails from the Blue Mountains. I think he's a smith," he added.

"Hmmm, is that right?" Gandalf muttered. "Did he provide a name?"

"Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo said with indecent reverence.

He recalled three nights previously when his mother had tucked him into bed after plying him with camomile tea and a toasty dressing gown. The fireworks had still been bursting from miles off, painting the shadow-darkened walls of his bedroom with flickering plumes of colour; splashes of cheerful greens and flaming reds, majestic purples and enchanting gold.

His father had lingered in the door frame, brass suspender buckles gleaming in the low-burning hearth fire. He had shifted from foot to foot, grimacing forlornly. Before putting Bilbo to bed they'd wrangled an explanation of his injuries out of him. When he'd told them that his saviour was a dwarf his mother had grown incredibly boisterous whilst his father (who was not a talkative hobbit at the best of times, unless it was to coin a phrase) had grown utterly mute.

After ascertaining that the duvet was draped perfectly across his shoulders, his mother had sat on the edge of his bed and carefully brushed his fringe back from his eyes. Her face had been brimming with pride as she'd spoken to him of valiant Took deeds – recounting battles won, and the unions of various great aunts, uncles and grandparents who'd fought side by side in battle. Bilbo had heard them all before, many times over, but now they seemed to hold a deeper meaning to him, beyond heroic family legends.

"You know it's a sign," she'd informed him knowledgeably, "that you'll marry. When one saves the life of another, it leaves it's mark; an unbreakable bond. Believe me, this Oakenshield will be back one day."

This statement had been followed by the soft shuffle of his father's feet, and when Bilbo had looked over, he'd seen him retreating down the hallway, muttering about tidying up the kitchen. Bilbo had felt sorry for making him uncomfortable, but it couldn't really be helped. After all, the most adventurous thing his father had ever done was marry a Took, and that had been quite enough for him.

Bilbo's mother had sighed and kissed him goodnight after that, promising to look in on him again in an hour or so, and whisked off after her husband. Bilbo had lain awake long afterwards, lost in a haze of wonder, fervour and mysticism. A squirming, excitement had warmed his belly as he pictured Thorin Oakenshield's face, imaging all the adventures they'd have together. He'd miss the Shire, and his family, but it would all be worth it.

He hadn't had a peaceful night's sleep since.

Bilbo was pulled from his remembrance by the abrupt halt of Gandalf's hands. The wizard was frowning, the lines creasing his brow deepening.

"Oakenshield..." Gandalf murmured speculatively, eyes gazing through Bilbo and the world around them as if they weren't there. "Was he travelling alone?"

Gandalf was certainly asking a good deal of questions.

"I think so. Heading for Bree, I'd imagine." Then it dawned on Bilbo. "Do you know him?" His voice nearly broke in his excitement.

"No," Gandalf said after a brief pause. "I am afraid I don't know him."

Disappointment washed through Bilbo, seeping into his bones and lodging heavily in his chest. "Oh..."

Gandalf shifted on his tree stump and resumed carving, observing the sudden gloominess that had flooded his countenance. "Would you like me to tell you of the Lothlórien elves?" he asked suddenly, clearly in an attempt to cheer him.

Bilbo perked up at it all the same. "Yes, please."

Gandalf chuckled, and raised a grizzled eyebrow as he began speaking; filling Bilbo's head with talk of the Silvan elves, the incredible forests of Mallorn trees, and vague tidbits concerning Galdriel and Celeborn. Bilbo didn't understand most of it, but he enjoyed listening all the same.

By the time Gandalf had finished his narrative some twenty minutes later, he'd also completed the rather small sword. He presented it to Bilbo with a grand flourish, hilt first. "There you are!"

Bilbo grasped the hilt with delicacy, and brandished it. Though crudely hewn and blunt, it was thin, light, and well-balanced, twice the length of his forearm. He whipped it through the air with a sharp swish, smiling expansively. "Thank you," he breathed.

"You're very welcome," Gandalf said, rising from his seat with a protest of limbs. "Remember, you must practise every day or you shan't improve. Now come along, or your father will have my hat."

"Can you tell me more about the Eldar?" Bilbo asked shyly, trotting quickly to keep up with Gandalf's longer strides, turning his first sword in his hands and inspecting the point. He wondered when he could have one with true steel.

"Certainly!" Gandalf exclaimed, digging out his pipe. "Though, in all my years I don't believe I've met such an inquisitive hobbit."

Despite his gruff tone, Bilbo sensed the compliment there and listened with awe to Gandalf's stories all the way back to Bag End.

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><p>Over the ensuing years, Thorin – to Bilbo's dismay – did <em>not <em>return, but for a time Gandalf's visits to the Shire grew almost daily, and he always made a point of stopping in to see Bilbo. They would walk together beneath the stars and speak of elves and forgotten happenings. Sometimes Gandalf regaled him also with the histories of men and dwarves, but Bilbo found those to be ponderous and less interesting.

As Bilbo approached his tweens, Gandalf's visits gradually lessened until eventually they vanished entirely, and even his face faded into obscurity in Bilbo's mind. The older he grew the less he played with wooden swords, practised stone throwing, studied maps, and traversed the uncharted paths and forests of Hobbiton. When his parents died and he fell early into his inheritance, Bilbo put aside most of his childish notions, becoming the respectable hobbit his father had always longed for him to be.

However, as vigorously as he denied or pretended to forget his erstwhile fancies, always in the back of his mind, he knew that he was simply waiting. Waiting – sometimes patiently, often restlessly – for the day when Thorin Oakenshield returned to the Shire for the purpose of claiming his hand.


End file.
